


your house is waiting (for you to walk in)

by ChancellorGriffin



Series: 2017 & 2019 "The 100" Kink Meme Fills [13]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Beard Kink, Begging, Bellamy's Bi and Doesn't Know It, Chapter 2 Might Be the Most Extra Smut I've Ever Written You Guys, Desperation, Dirty Talk, Don't Worry Kids Kabby Is Still Canon, Edging, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Hair Kink, Oral Sex, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Teasing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-29
Updated: 2019-02-02
Packaged: 2019-10-18 06:02:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 19,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17575214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChancellorGriffin/pseuds/ChancellorGriffin
Summary: Kane is still in cryo. Abby misses the little things, like the feel of his beard and his hair. Bellamy decides to help her out.(Despite Kane's absence, emotionally this is very much a threesome.)





	1. you're missing (when i close my eyes)

_**" . . . everything carries me to you,** _   
_**as if everything that exists,**_   
_**aromas, light, metals,** _   
_**were little boats** _   
_**that sail** _   
_**toward those isles of yours that wait for me."** _

**-Pablo Neruda**

* * * * *

It begins very casually.

They’re in the Eligius mess hall, she passes him in line for coffee (or whatever centuries-old synthetic processed substitute the ship’s dry goods compartments were stocked with), and he smiles down at her.

“How’s the patient today?”

“Nothing to report."

Which is what she always says, every time he asks, at this point they’re just reciting canned dialogue at each other. Three weeks, and nothing’s changed.

“He’s gonna be fine,” he says, giving her a reassuring smile, which is what he always says and always does, and she always responds with a distracted “thank you, Bellamy” and walks away.

But today she smiles back up at him, something kind of sad and distant in her eyes, and reaches out to give the thick black scruff of his beard a gentle scratch. “Funny how it’s always the little things,” she says absently, like she’s not even talking to him, like he’s not even there, and then she withdraws her hand and disappears with her coffee.

“Did Abby just . . . _pet your face?”_ asks Murphy from behind him in line, eyes wide, in a tone that indicates he’ll be repeating this tale all over the ship later.

“Shut up, Murphy.”

“She does love a man with a beard.”

“Shut up, Murphy.”

“And hers is in a coma, so -”

_“Shut up, Murphy.”_

“I’m just saying. Comas don’t count. Technically, you’re both single.”

“Technically, you’re an asshole.”

Murphy puts his hands up in surrender, before taking his coffee and departing to the table where Raven and Emori are sitting. “Just don’t shave it off, or you’ll break her heart,” he tosses casually over his shoulder, as Bellamy irritably stomps away.

But he doesn’t shave anymore, after that.

Not for any particular reason. Certainly not because Abby’s gentle touch on his jaw felt so good, and he wouldn’t mind it happening again.

Because that would be ridiculous.

* * * * *

It’s the hair, next.

He’s back in the mess hall a few day later, sitting at one of the round metal tables, engaged in an extremely intense game of Go Fish with Madi, using a battered old deck of cards borrowed from Diyoza.

“Do you have any . . .” Madi consults her hand with a furrowed brow, concentrating intensely, before looking back up at him. “Fours.”

“Go fish."

“She’s kicking your ass,” says Abby in amusement, strolling up behind them.

“Oh good,” Bellamy groans. “Witnesses.”

Abby laughs and kisses the top of Madi’s head. “Let him win at least one hand, baby,” she says to her granddaughter wryly, “this is just embarrassing."

“No way,” Madi declares firmly. “He just needs to get better at Go Fish.”

Abby raises an eyebrow at the man across the table. “You’re not throwing the game, are you?” she asks him, a little dubiously.

“I swear to God, I’m losing honestly. She’s just getting way better draws.”

Abby circles around to the other side of the table and leans down to peer at Bellamy’s cards, hand resting on his shoulder. “Nia,” she whispers into his ear, lips barely moving, breath warm on his skin, and he gives a tiny nod to indicate “message received” without giving the game away.

“Hmmmm,” he deliberates, scratching his chin. “Do you have any . . . queens?”

Madi glares darkly, pulling three queens from her hand and throwing them down on the table. “Did you cheat?” she demands, eyes narrowed, glaring from Abby to Bellamy and back again.

“You’re ahead by five sets, honey," her grandmother reminds her, "you could afford to lose that one."

“Did you tell him what I had? Did you say what to ask for?”

“I promise, I never said the word ‘queen,’” says Abby solemnly. “Cross my heart.”

It’s about then that Bellamy notices Abby’s hand has left his shoulder and slid up the back of his neck and her fingers are tangled in his hair. It’s easy, warm, it doesn’t seem to mean anything, it doesn’t ping anything on Madi’s radar, it’s just Abby playing with them, and if it hadn’t been for the beard thing the other day it wouldn’t ping anything on Bellamy’s radar either.

But she lingers there, for a long moment, and just as the gesture which might be no more than a maternal ruffling of his curls transforms into something unmistakably like a caress, she withdraws, pats him on the shoulder, tells Madi to go easy on him, and walks away.

* * * * *

It’s nearly every day, after that.

Any excuse to touch his beard or his thick black curls.

Always light, casual, friendly, never crossing a line, never pointed enough to draw attention or make anyone uncomfortable. Sometimes he wonders if she even knows she’s doing it.

Should he say something?

Would it embarrass her, if he brought it up, or might it maybe help her to talk?

Because Bellamy, too, misses him horribly, and Bellamy, too, has no one he can really share it with.  Maybe it's something they both need.

Maybe it would help, if Abby knew she wasn't alone.

Maybe he could explain how the beard came to be in the first place: how he stopped shaving on the Ark for the most embarrassing reason possible, because on the Ring they'd slept in the Councilors' quarters and he'd gotten Kane's room, and in some tiny dumb way it made him feel closer to him, from all the way up there in space while Kane was buried underground, to sleep in his bead and read his old books.  To stop shaving, and grow a beard.  He could tell her how Raven knew immediately and mocked him for weeks, calling him "Kane Junior" or "Kane II" (and once, "Bellarcus"), but he was too stubborn to let her feel like she had won, so the beard stuck, and by the time she gave up teasing him he'd decided he liked it anyway.

Maybe it’s just a simple, small thing, she just misses the feel of Marcus Kane’s hair and beard underneath her hands, and running her fingers over the frosted glass of his cryopod isn’t enough to ease the loneliness of touch, and it’s absurd of people like Murphy to turn it into something like flirting, because that would be ridiculous. Maybe she’s just sad, and if he can help her then why shouldn’t he?

So he finally does the thing Clarke’s been yelling at him to do since they returned from their last trip, the one where his seatbelt came loose on landing and jolted him out of his seat so badly he fucked up his shoulder - partly because, to be honest, it's killing him, but partly because it's the best excuse he has to get her alone.

* * * * *

“And how long, exactly, have you been walking around the ship in miserable pain, pretending you’re fine and telling Clarke to stop nagging you?” Abby demands, arms crossed, glaring at the shirtless man seated on the exam table in front of her.

“Only a few days."

"How many is a few, Bellamy?"

" . . . eight?"

“Oh, good Lord,” she snaps, exasperated, “you’re as bad as he is.”

“In my defense -”

“In your defense, you’re _also_ a martyr who refuses to ask for help or admit you’re in pain until you're on the verge of falling apart," she retorts.  "Yes. I know the type."

There’s no real way to answer this, so he doesn't even try, but it does give him a tiny flicker of . . . _something,_ deep in his chest, to be told he's exactly like Marcus Kane. Granted, she's furious at him over it, so it's a dumb thing to be proud of, it's embarrassing that he's flattered by it, but he is anyway.

Abby sighs, leaning in to knead and prod gently at his shoulder with her deft, agile fingertips. He winces, but doesn’t make a sound.  “It’s not dislocated,” she says finally, “and there’s nothing broken. You’ve just strained it, badly. A few painkillers - you can get them from Jackson tonight, when he's back - and a good, hard massage. And check your damned seatbelt next time you get in that ship. I don’t want you coming back here with a cracked skull.”

“Promise,” he says, and stands to leave, but she pushes him back down.

“We’re not done,” she says firmly, moving around the exam table behind him, which is when he realizes she meant _right now._ Her nimble fingers dig into his trapezius muscle, and it's all he can do not to actually scream with pain.  He hisses sharply, and she makes a small, satisfied sound with a hint of "serves you right" that Bellamy thinks is fairly un-doctorly.

“If I had a dollar for every stubborn, idiot man I’ve had to fix because of something stupid and preventable,” she mutters as her thumbs press with brutal precision into the white-hot center of his misery.

“You’d have a huge pile of useless paper currency that hasn’t been legal tender in like two hundred and fifty years?”

“It’s an expression,” she says dryly. “My grandfather used to say it.”

“Was he a grumpy doctor too? Ow!” he exclaims, as she prods in deeper, and he’s pretty sure this time it was just to be mean.

“He was, as a matter of fact,” she retorts. “And that’ll teach you to call me grumpy. A word which, by the way, is fairly rich coming from you.”

“You like grumpy men,” says Bellamy before he can stop himself. “Tall ones, with beards and shaggy hair. That’s your type.”

Abby says nothing, but slowly withdraws her hands from his skin (his shoulder already feels a thousand times better) and circles back around the exam table to face him again, arms folded across her chest, eyeing him with baffled suspicion.

“Are you _flirting_ with me, Bellamy?”

“I’ve been trying to figure out if you’re flirting with _me.”_

She raises an eyebrow at this, and he can't tell if she's amused or offended. “I’m taken,” she says, her tone unreadable, “as you already know.”

"Octavia's room was too clean when she was gone," he says unexpectedly, startling her.  Whatever she expected him to say in response, it wasn't this.  "After she was arrested, I mean.  When she was a kid she left her stuff everywhere. It used to make me crazy, I was always the one picking up after her, making sure her things were stashed out of sight in case someone knocked on the door.  I complained about it constantly.  Then she was gone, and Mom was gone, and it was just me, and I had no one to pick up after because the apartment stayed tidy all the time."  The memory causes a slight clenching in his chest - even though it's all in the past, even though Octavia's here now, and alive, and safe, and sleeps in the room next door to his . . . still, the grief feels fresh.  "It was hard, sometimes, to let myself miss them," he confesses.  "It felt like weakness, and I knew they'd want me to be strong.  But it always bursts out when you least expect it.  It's the little things.  Like you said."

Abby doesn't answer.  But he watches one hand drift almost unconsciously to her throat, to the place where her wedding ring used to be.

This woman doesn't need anyone telling her what absence feels like.  She knows exactly what's happening to her.

“It’s not embarrassing,” Bellamy tells her, voice low and reassuring. “You can’t touch him in the cryopod. You can’t even open the lid. And you miss the way his hair and his beard felt. That seems like a really normal thing, to me. I don’t think you should feel bad about it.”

A flush sweeps over Abby's cheeks, and she suddenly can't look at him anymore.

"Hey," he says, reaching out to touch her arm, giving her his kindest, warmest smile.  "It's okay."

"Bellamy -"

"Come here," he tells her, opening his thighs from his perch on the edge of the exam table, creating space for her to move in closer.  “Go nuts. I don’t mind. It feels nice, actually. I liked it.”

Hesitantly, Abby steps into the open space between his knees, reaching out her hands to touch his face, then abruptly drawing them back.

“This is so weird, I’m sorry,” she says softly, “I shouldn’t be doing this, you don’t need to -”

“If I’d had someone to come over while Octavia was gone and leave their shoes and books and water glasses all over the place for me to pick up," he tells her, "I would have said yes in a heartbeat. It might have made me feel better.” He smiles at her. She smiles back, almost against her will.  “It’s cool, I promise,” he assures her. “It’s not weird.”

So she reaches out again, letting her fingertips slowly trace his jaw, closing her eyes, and it really _is_ a caress this time, there’s no mistaking it.  Her hands roam through his beard, stroking the coarse softness with visible pleasure before sliding up his cheeks to card through his hair, tangling his dark curls around her fingers and massaging his scalp.

She's enjoying this. Savoring it.

Touching Bellamy gives her pleasure.

_Does she do this to him when they're -_

He feels the crotch of his jeans begin to constrict and is immediately furious at himself. It's wrong, intrusive. _Not here, Bellamy, just let her have this, let her pretend. She’s not here for you. She just needs to disappear for a minute._

She moves closer, and he opens his eyes to find himself level with the swell of her breasts, which makes everything worse. She smells like coffee and lemon, two things which shouldn’t go together but suddenly do, and she gives a soft little sigh of pleasure as his dark locks slip through her fingers.

“I miss him too,” Bellamy murmurs hoarsely, closing his eyes to avoid the sight of those perfect breasts which aren’t his to touch, or even to _look_ at, gripping the edge of the exam table so hard his knuckles turn white as he fights to press his unwelcome erection back down.

Abby steps back, her hands drifting back down to his face, cupping his jaw again. “He missed you,” she says softly. “For six years, he missed you every day.” She strokes the beard with the back of her knuckles. “Truth, now,” she says, fondness mixed with amusement. “This was at least a _little_ because of Marcus, wasn’t it?”

Bellamy looks down at the floor.

“God, he was proud of you,” she murmurs. “I wish he’d had more time with you, with the man you’ve turned out to be, before . . . everything happened.”

“Well, I’m not going anywhere,” he says firmly, “so we’ll have lots of time when he wakes up.”

She smiles at him, the flash of a tear at the corner of her eye, and he reaches up to wipe it away with his thumb, and now suddenly _he’s_ caressing _her,_ and as she closes her eyes and nuzzles her cheek into his palm almost unconsciously, he unlocks another thing she misses.

Not just touch, but _being_ touched.

_Oh shit._

_This is a really bad idea._

He’s shirtless in Med Bay with his cock swelling inside his jeans and this is _Clarke’s mom,_ she’s not his for the taking, she already has a man she loves, Bellamy’s never even _thought_ about her like this before, but suddenly he's imagining all the other things about Kane that she might be missing, and he feels his cheeks grow warm with arousal and mortification combined.

Neither of them remember which one begins it, but the following things happen, in some kind of order that becomes fuzzy later:

Abby gives a soft little moan of pleasure as Bellamy’s rough fingers brush lightly over her cheek.

Bellamy’s other hand alights on her waist, pulling her to him, letting his parted thighs close to press against her hips and hold her in place.

Abby’s hands on his jaw become urgent, insistent, drawing him towards her, tilting his face up toward hers.

Bellamy’s hand moves across Abby’s perfectly-sloped cheekbone to her temple before threading into her hair, and applying the faintest gentle pressure to bring her face downward, toward his.

Abby’s eyes open and lock onto Bellamy’s, her pink lips parting to murmur his name.

“I’m not him,” Bellamy whispers, swallowing hard, “but I’m right here if you need me.”

“I don’t _know_ what I need,” she confesses like it’s somehow shameful, like it’s weakness, and his cock is straining at his zipper so hard it’s physically painful, but he knows he has to break this off right here, right now, while he still has the willpower to stop.

“It’s late,” he murmurs, gently taking her by the hips and pushing her back so he can stand up and move away from her. “Maybe we should sleep.”

She flushes, bites her lip, looks away, mortified and a little hurt, her body shrinking into itself with shame.

“But you know where my room is,” he adds softly. “If you decide this is what you want.”

Her head snaps up, her gaze meeting his as he tugs his shirt back on and makes his way to the door.

“You decide, Abby,” he says, and then he’s gone.


	2. you're missing (when i shut out the lights)

_**“ . . . so I wait for you like a lonely house** _  
_**till you will see me again and live in me.** _  
_**Till then my windows ache.”**_

**― Pablo Neruda**

* * * * *

Three nights later, she knocks on his door.

He hasn’t seen her since Med Bay and suspects she’s been avoiding him, which he can’t really blame her for since he hasn’t _not_ been avoiding _her_  since then, too.  Especially after the mild embarrassment of having waited up for her, that first night, so sure she felt what he was feeling, so sure he'd seen it in her eyes, so sure she'd follow him to his quarters so they could finish what they'd started.

But she didn't, and he felt ashamed of himself for having misread her so badly.  For having made a pass at his best friend's mom, a woman who's basically married to a man he cares for deeply.  He hasn't quite been sure how he'll ever be able to look her in the eye again, and he's been fighting hard to push it out of his mind altogether.  (Which he kind of can, during the day; it's harder at night.)

So when he hears the soft tap of knuckles against steel a little after midnight, he rises, grumbling irritably and rubbing his eyes, to remind his sister that her insomnia stopped being his responsibility over a hundred and twenty-five years ago.  But when he pulls the door open, scowling, he's stunned speechless to see Abby standing in the hallway.

She’s in her nightclothes, a threadbare gray tank and a pair of shorts that give him his first-ever look at the astonishing marvel of her legs.  But she also isn’t wearing a bra, and her hair is loose over one shoulder, so he doesn’t even know where to look first to take her all in.

_She's here._

Even his thoughts can't form complete sentences, just a cacophony of fragmented words.

_Is she really -_

_Does she want -_

_Fuck, she's so -_

_Can I -_

_Will she let me -_  
  
“Did I wake you?” she asks, stepping in and closing the door behind her, looking him up and down.  Her clear brown eyes take in his sleep-disheveled hair, his bare chest, the faded sweatpants hanging low on his hips, as he stands there gaping at her like an idiot.  
  
“Yes. No."  He shakes his head, collecting himself.  "I was in bed, but I was reading.”

"Liar," she says, amused. "You opened the door with a face that said 'Goddammit, Octavia, I _just_ got to sleep.'"  She looks around, taking in his quarters - as spare and empty as every other stateroom on the ship.  "Isn't it strange," she says thoughtfully, "we keep moving from place to place without ever staying long enough to accumulate . . . _things._ From the Ark to Camp Jaha to the bunker to Shallow Valley to to here, and then soon back down to the ground again.  I lived in one place the first 48 years of my life, and since then it feels like I've never stopped moving.  From empty room to empty room to empty room."

She's pacing a little, and maybe stalling.  Bellamy gives her space, moving away from her to sit on the edge of the bed and wait patiently for her to work her way around to saying whatever she's come here to say.  It's safer, anyway, to put a bit of distance between him and the tiny peaked nipples he can see through the thin cotton of her top; though now there's the danger of being far enough away to take in the whole expanse of her legs at once.

_Get it together, Bellamy._

“When I was pregnant,” she begins, completely unexpectedly (he notices that she doesn’t add “. . . with Clarke,” as though simply omitting her name erases the shadow of her between them), “my hormones were all messed up. Some women had particularly bad reactions to the Ark’s contraceptive chips. It’s very common, especially in your second and third trimester, for pregnant women to feel particularly . . . amorous. But I wasn’t. I couldn’t stand to have Jake touch me. I hurt all over, I was nauseous and cranky all the time, and my sex drive just vanished into thin air.”  
  
He wants to ask why she’s telling him this, though he knows it’s a stupid question; she’s clearly attempting to explain something intimate and complicated. And he’s torn between discomfort at the notion of hearing things Clarke might not want him to hear, and a new kind of fascination, where he suddenly finds himself wanting to know every single thing about Abby Griffin.  
  
“So we made an arrangement,” she continues. “Clarke doesn’t know about this, obviously. But Jake and I talked about it, and Callie and I talked about it, and every once in awhile he would spend a night in her quarters, which let me have the bed all to myself for a change, and let him . . . well.”  
  
“Get his needs met.”  
  
“Exactly.”  
  
“I think,” Bellamy ventures hesitantly, not quite sure what response she's expecting, “that as long as everyone’s honest about what they need out of it, there’s nothing wrong with an arrangement like that.”  
  
“That’s exactly what Marcus said,” she tells him, and then everything becomes clear.  
  
“Oh,” says Bellamy, swallowing hard.  
  
“I know I’m asking you for more than you offered,” she murmurs, “so I won’t hold it against you if you ask me to leave.”  
  
“Please don’t,” he whispers hoarsely, and in two long strides he has her in his arms.

He doesn’t want to presume that this is anything more than just one night, so he wants to make it last. If he only gets one chance at this, dammit, he’s not going to rush it. The longer this moment lasts, the longer she’s with him, the longer he can help keep her grief at bay. He wonders how far he can draw this out.  
  
So he starts slow, at first, and doesn’t even let himself kiss her for a long, long time. All he does is wrap his arms around her back, pulling her small soft body against his.  She turns her head to lay her cheek against his heart and melts contentedly into his embrace.  
  
_She needs to be held,_ he thinks. _She misses Kane holding her. You can give her that, you can make her feel less lonely. You can help her._  
  
And it’s certainly convenient that he can tell himself he’s doing something altruistic here, because her skin is warm and her hair smells like lemon and her tiny frame fits perfectly into his arms and he _really, really, really_ can’t let himself get used to this.  
  
His hands find the gap between the hem of her tank and the waistband of her shorts and he starts there, just letting his fingertips caress the velvet skin of her lower back, tracing the arc as her waist slopes down towards the perfect, round ass he’s never even looked at before tonight but suddenly can’t stop thinking about. She hums contentedly in his arms, and he feels her hands begin to move on his naked spine, tripping lightly up and down his vertebrae and making him shiver.  
  
Then her mouth is on his chest, and that whole careful plan of taking it slow goes out the window completely.  
  
_“Fuck,”_ he grunts as she circles his nipples with her tongue, one at a time, slow and teasing, and then presses a row of hot kisses along his clavicle, hands sliding down his back and dipping under the waistband of his sweatpants, and that's it.  Bellamy snaps completely, yanking her roughly against him and finally kissing her the way he wanted to in Med Bay but couldn’t.  
  
It’s electric, incandescent, and her hands come up to clutch desperately at his jaw, urgent and hungry as she strokes his beard, the featherlight touch raising goosebumps on the back of his neck as she moans desperately into him, her sharp little tongue sweeping into his mouth. They lose their footing, stumbling backward until Abby is pressed up against the cool metal wall, and immediately takes advantage of the situation to lift one slender thigh and wrap it around his body. Bellamy slides his hands from her waist to cup her ass and lift her off the ground completely; she gives a surprised little squeak and clenches her thighs around his waist, then slides her hands up his jaw to fist his hair as his body presses hers against the wall.  
  
He knows she can feel the swell of his cock against her cunt, separated only by two thin layers of fabric, and her hips grind hard against him as she clutches his dark curls, her heels digging into his thighs to hold herself up. She’s so light, but impossibly strong; it would be a mistake, he thinks, to see Abby Griffin as fragile.  
  
One Marcus Kane, certainly, has never made.  
  
His hands glide up the sides of her body, beneath the thin fabric of her tank, and his thumbs tease circles around her nipples, causing her to arch her back off the wall and pull away from his mouth, gasping his name.  
  
“Bellamy,” she pants, dazed with happiness. “ _Fuck,_ honey, that’s so good . . .”  
  
And so he lets go, lets her hold herself there with her powerful thighs and her hands gripping his hair, as he cups her full, soft breasts, fingers stretching to their limits.  He wants to caress every inch of them but they're too big to fit neatly in the palm of his hand.

He imagines Abby on her back, pressing those breasts together as his cock slides wetly between them, and a shudder rolls through his entire body.

He remembers his plan to go slow, which is suddenly very convenient, because he’s not ready to stop playing with these breasts yet, he wants to stay here forever with her tongue in his mouth and her fingers in his hair and her tits in his hands and her cunt pressed so tightly against him that he can feel its heat through the cotton of her shorts.  
  
None of this feels real.  
  
_I’m going to hold off the loneliness as long as I can,_ he promises her silently. _I’m going to take you apart all night long._

Abby releases her hold on his hair long enough to yank her thin cotton top over her head and toss it on the floor, with an urgency that makes his cock twitch, before seizing his curls again and guiding his head downward. Bellamy lifts her perfect ass higher, so her legs can wrap around his waist, holding herself securely in place at the perfect height for him to plunge his tongue between those gorgeous breasts.  
  
She arches her back, grinding against him, and moans hungrily at the rough scritch of beard against her velvet skin. Bellamy nuzzles in deeper, sucking a hard rough kiss into the hollow between her breasts and then soothing it with soft licks of his tongue.  
  
_“Fuck!”_ Abby exclaims, clutching wildly at his curls. “Stay there, honey, that’s perfect.”  
  
But he wants to torture her a little, because it’s so unbelievably hot to watch her starting to lose it, so he licks his way over to her right breast and takes the pert little pink-brown nipple between his lips and sucks, _hard,_ and Abby’s whole body convulses with a soft little gasping scream. She’s riding his waist now, fruitlessly, her hips too high for her cunt to find any release against his cock, and he can feel the thin cotton of her shorts beginning to grow warm and damp where she presses against him.  
  
“I’m already so close,” she murmurs, caressing his hair as he devours her soft breast, “take me to bed, Bellamy, I’m ready for you, I need you -”  
  
“Not yet,” he whispers hoarsely, lifting his head to meet her gaze. “We’re just getting started.”  
  
“I can feel how hard you are, sweetheart,” she says softly, fingers stroking his jaw, “it’s okay. I’m ready. I want you to.”  
  
“You think I’m just going to throw you down on my bed and give you a hasty five-minute fuck and then shove you out the door?” he responds, leaning in to rest his forehead against hers. “Abby. If this is something you need - if this is going to help you survive the horrible wait to get Kane back - if being here with me, like this makes things even a little bit better - then I’m going to keep you here in this moment as long as I can.”  
  
She stares at him, surprise etched on her lovely face, and he sees the corners of her brown eyes shining with tears.  
  
“You don't need to -” she begins, then bites her lip. “I would never have asked -”  
  
“I don’t know what kind of relationship your husband had with your friend,” he says to her frankly, “and I don't wanna judge it, but you could _never_ be just a casual fuck to me.”  
  
Her cheeks flush, a little. “I’m twice your age,” she says hesitantly. “I went to school with your mother. I didn’t think you would ever - that you would want -”  
  
She doesn’t finish the sentence, but he suddenly understands, and his heart cracks a little.  
  
“You thought if you were lucky, you might be able to talk me into a quick round of meaningless pity sex, and then disappear before I regretted it,” he guesses, and she looks away. “Jesus, Abby. How do you not _know?”_ He kisses her mouth, slow and fierce and aching with meaning, tugging her plush lower lip between his before pulling away. “Didn’t you notice, in Med Bay?” he breathes. “How could you not see what you do to me?”  
  
“Bellamy . . .”  
  
“You still don’t believe me. I’ll be more obvious then.” He licks into her throat and lets his lips hover just above her ear, hot breath making her shiver. “I’m going to kiss and lick you all over until your shorts are so wet I can feel it on my skin,” he breathes. “Then I’m going to take you over to my bed and bury my face in your cunt until you’re shaking and sweating and begging me to let you come. But I’m not going to. I’m going to let it build and build and build and build, Abby, and then when I finally fuck you I’m going to go so slow you’ll be clawing at my back and begging for more, but I’m still going to make you wait, until _I_ decide it’s time, and then when I finally make you come, it’s going to shatter us both.”

She swallows hard, eyes dark with lust, biting her lip, and her thighs are suddenly shaking so much that she can’t hold herself up anymore, legs unwrapping from his waist until she’s standing on her tiptoes to meet his gaze. “No one’s ever fucked me like that,” she whispers. “No one’s ever . . . made me wait. Made me beg.”  
  
He raises an eyebrow. “Used to getting your way?”  
  
“Used to being taken care of,” she retorts, both amused and aroused by his cocky grin. “Marcus is very . . . attentive.”  
  
“I bet he likes to make you come two or three times before him,” says Bellamy in a low voice, and _oh God,_ he’s _picturing_ it, that broad powerful back rising and falling on top of her slender body, baritone and alto moans echoing together, and now his cock is straining at his shorts so hard he thinks he might faint.  
  
(How the hell is _he_ going to hold out this long?)  
  
“Yes,” says Abby, "he does."  
  
“I can’t be Kane,” says Bellamy, in a voice full of strange emotion, and it’s more obvious than he’d intended that he isn’t just talking about sex. “It would be so much worse if I was trying to be him. I want to give you something completely different.”  
  
Unexpectedly, this makes her smile at him with a kind of sad, indulgent fondness, as she reaches up to caress his face with her fingertips. “God, you really are just like him,” she murmurs. “Bellamy, I was never asking you to _be_ Marcus for me. Or even to stand in his place. I came here for _you._ To be with you.” She runs the back of her hand over the coarse dark shadow of his beard. “Yes,” she confesses, “I miss doing this.” She reaches up to delicately stroke the black curls brushing the nape of his neck, twirling one lock around her finger. “And this.” She pulls his head down to hers and presses a warm, hungry kiss on his mouth. “And this.” Her tongue traces the outline of his lower lip as she pulls away. “But I’m not asking you to pretend to be Marcus for me,” she continues, in a low, warm voice. “I need you to be Bellamy Blake right now.” She looks up at him, meeting his gaze, her smile alluring and inviting. “So what is Bellamy Blake going to do next?”  
  
“Tell you to take your shorts off, and get into my bed so I can eat you out,” he says bluntly, and her whole body trembles with pleasure at the commanding tone.  
  
“Bossy,” she whispers, obediently hooking her fingers into the waistband of her shorts and slowly, teasingly, pulling them down over the curve of her hips. “Don’t forget, I’m twice your age.”  
  
“I’m twice your size.”  
  
“That’s true,” she concedes, a little breathlessly, bending down to step out of her shorts and then rising up to give him his first clear look at her cunt, shadowed with a triangle of fawn-colored hair. “You could do anything you wanted to me.”  
  
“If you let me,” he says, a little wryly, thinking of all the times he’s watched people underestimate this small, slender woman and been laughably mistaken.  
  
She steps over to him, offering up her naked body to his gaze, chin tilted up, eyes calm and steady on his, and he likes that she isn’t shy about it, likes the way she stands in her own light and seems to silently say, _Here I am, this is me._  
  
She was nervous about coming to him, when she didn’t realize how badly he wanted her. Now that she knows, she seems to have no fear left at all.  
  
“Take me to bed, Bellamy,” she murmurs. “I want you to do all the things to me you just said.” She tilts her head. “With one exception.”  
  
“What’s that?”  
  
She turns her gaze down to the bulge in his sweatpants, which is growing minute by minute. “You’ll never make it,” she informs him, in a low voice that's almost a purr. “If you want to edge me all night long, I can take it. But I don’t think _you_ can.” She sinks to her knees and lets her forehead rest against his hipbone, breathing deeply, and he shudders at the erotic sensation of it, realizing she’s savoring his scent. “Let me make you come first,” she says softly. “Then you can do anything you want to me with your hands and your mouth - for as long as you want - and by the time I’m begging for you to fuck me, you’ll be ready again.”  
  
_By the time I’m begging for you to fuck me._  
  
She’s right. His cock is already leaking precum into his sweatpants and his balls are so full they practically ache, and the sight of her slowly pulling the fabric down with a focused, hungry gaze to bring its full erect length into view isn’t helping.  
  
“I’ll be nice,” she promises him, teasingly. “I won’t make you beg for long.”

 _“Abby,”_ he groans as her fingers circle his shaft, caressing it with the same urgent hunger she uses when she strokes his hair and beard, and he knows _this_ is a thing she’s been missing too.  
  
“I knew it would be pretty,” she says in a low voice, lifting it against his belly and trailing one slim finger all the way up the ridge of vein on the underside. “I knew I'd like it when I saw it.”  
  
Then she parts her soft pink lips and wraps them around the tip of his cock, pursing them in a tight, perfect kiss just at the ridge beneath the flared head, and gives him one long, slow, deep suck, and Bellamy lets out a raw, needy, animal sound he’s never made before in his _life._  
  
His hands gather up her hair in a messy ponytail, holding it out of her face so he can watch the way her cheeks fill and hollow, her contented humming sigh sizzling against his skin. She’s insanely, almost unbelievably good at this, and he finds himself wondering whether everything he’s ever believed about the inevitable tedium of married sex is wrong, before he remembers that she’s also a doctor.  
  
Of _course_ she knows what will happen when her tongue darts out to prod at the little V-shaped indentation where the vein meets the head, a place no one has ever touched before, which causes him to grunt and convulse and see stars. Of course she guides one hand back between his thighs to scratch lightly with her fingernails on a delicate patch of skin behind his balls he’s barely registered the existence of until this moment, but which is suddenly the most electrically-charged square inch of his body. Of course her hands corkscrew gently up and down his shaft, stroking in opposite directions, causing a dizzying cacophony of sensations.  
  
And of course she isn’t squeamish about his orgasm, making no move to pull her lips away as he gets closer and closer, until he realizes that she’s going to hold him in her mouth while he finishes, she’s going to let him fill her mouth with cum and pour himself down her throat.  
  
She takes him deeper and deeper, smooth and sure, not even a trace of gagging, until her lips are sucking lightly at a spot about halfway down his shaft, and he greedily tugs at her hair to push into her mouth a little further. She smiles around his cock, and takes it happily, letting him fuck her lips a little bit before pulling back out to halfway. Then she looks up at him, something encouraging in her eyes, as she reaches back with her hand again to caress that spot with her deft fingertips, tongue swirling messily around the head of his cock inside her warm, liquid mouth, and suddenly he’s tumbling over the edge, filling her with a hot river of cum, as she strokes and swallows and caresses him to draw every last drop out, drinking it neatly down, her eyes never leaving his.  
  
By the time he’s too soft and spent to hold himself in her mouth anymore, and slides wetly out of her, he’s _shaking._  
  
_Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck._  
  
It’s _never -_  
  
No one has _ever -_  
  
She rises to her feet and presses a salty, sticky kiss against his mouth, giving him the odd and unfamiliar sensation of tasting himself on her tongue, and then saunters over to his bed, lying down on her back with her head on the pillow and spreading her thighs.  
  
“Your turn,” she says seductively, holding out her hand to him. “Now that you have a shot at keeping up with me.”  
  
_Marcus Kane got this every night,_ Bellamy thinks as he makes his way over to the bed and climbs on top of her lithe, warm body, kissing his way down her neck to linger hungrily once more on her perfect tits before moving further. _Maybe a 125-year coma is worth it, if he gets to wake up to this for the rest of his life._  
  
_Lucky bastard._  
  
But Bellamy doesn’t get her for the rest of his life. Bellamy only has tonight, and he has to make it count.  
  
His tongue glides a long slow line from the hollow between her breasts, down her ribs and over the slope of her belly, letting the scritch of his beard tease the delicate skin, before he stops with his nose resting on the mound of her cunt.  
  
He breathes deeply. She smells like salt and earth.  
  
“Are you ready?” he murmurs.  
  
She nods, hands sliding down to grip his hair, lifting her thighs up to rest on his shoulders. “I’m ready,” she tells him. “Make me beg.”

Bellamy lowers his head, breathing in the tangy scent of her cunt, and thinks about how Kane would do this.  
  
Kane knows Abby’s body by now the way he once knew the words of the Traveler’s Blessing or the halls of the Ark, knows it like it’s a place he calls home. Their lovemaking would be intimate and familiar; he would know exactly how to navigate himself to the places Abby likes best, and exactly what to do when he got there. He would be reverent, generous, adoring. He would take his time. He would revel in her pleasure. He would go slow, both because he’s tender and thorough - and because, secretly, Bellamy knows his back isn’t what it used to be. Kane and Abby are older, and they’ve been through so much together, and their connection runs so deep that even the wildest roll in the hay would be overflowing with that kind of attentive, affectionate sweetness.  
  
This is what it must be like, he thinks, when it’s real love.  
  
But Bellamy isn’t Kane, and Abby doesn’t want him to be. If he came to her with gentle, devoted lovemaking, if he gave her a hollow replica of the thing she’s really missing, it would rip the scar over her heart right open and she’d bleed out here in his arms.  
  
So he thinks of what Marcus Kane would do, kneeling at the foot of this bed between Abby’s toned, slender thighs - and then he does the exact opposite.  
  
He goes hard, and fast, and rough.  
  
Abby gives a high little squeak-gasp of astonishment as he nuzzles roughly into the inside of her thigh, letting his beard brush against her most sensitive places, sucking fierce little kisses into the delicate velvet skin, even biting ever so gently, just a brief spike of sensation at the sharp press of his teeth. She’ll have hickeys all over tomorrow, hidden from the rest of the world, a secret, invisible reminder that for one night she let him mark her as his.  
  
He opens her thighs wider, licking a hot stripe into the crease where her thigh joins her pelvis, and the skin is so impossibly soft there that he lingers forever, scraping his teeth along it and nibbling with his lips and letting his mustache brush against it. It smells like sweat and arousal, and when he tilts his head to press in deeper his head is resting on the mound of her pubic bone. She’s trembling already, and he knows she wants his mouth on her cunt, but she also understands the game they’re playing, and it’s a matter of pride not to beg until she absolutely has to.  
  
He switches to the other thigh, teasing and torturing her some more, so close to where she wants him that she can feel his dark curls brush the soft hair of her cunt as he rests his head there and licks her warm skin. He runs his fingertips lightly up the inside of her thighs, making her shiver, and her hips lift almost involuntarily.  
  
She’s already getting restless.  
  
He shifts his weight back to her center, and begins to suck hungry little kisses into the soft white flesh just above the triangle of brown hair, the gentle slope of her stomach down to her waist and hips and pelvis. He doesn’t touch her cunt yet, though he knows she can feel his hot breath ruffling her pubic hair, and she shifts beneath him again, squirming, trying to move her aching core toward his mouth and demand his attentions on it.  
  
“I’m not done torturing you yet,” he murmurs, looking up at her, meeting her wild brown gaze as her fingers reach out and tangle frantically in his thick black hair, and then it becomes a battle of wills. Her caress is so seductive, so shivery-sweet, that he wants to lean into it, to follow where she guides him; but he also isn’t ready, yet, for her to be back in the driver’s seat. So as she attempts to steer his head lower, he resists, instead teasing her further by pursing his lips to blow, very gently, on the mound of her cunt, warm air tickling her soft brown hair and the outer folds beneath it.  
  
Then he reaches down, parts her folds, and does it again - this time to her clit.

“Oh God,” she whimpers, so he does it again, and again, watching her strain against the maddening, elusive sensation, air from his lips stirring her clit without touching it, it’s pure fucking torture and no matter how hard she tugs at his hair he refuses to relent.  
  
Instead he moves lower, letting his hot breath blow across the entrance to her cunt, and then inside it, as she writhes against the sheets.  
  
“You’re a monster,” she chokes out in a voice that’s half laughter, half a groan of misery. “How long are you going to keep doing that?”  
  
“Depends. How long do you think you can hold out without begging?”  
  
“I don’t break that easily, kid,” she says, giving his hair another tug, so he moves in closer and tries a new tactic. He spreads her folds apart, and opens his mouth wide, sealing his warm lips around her cunt. She sighs happily at the sensation - physical contact, _finally_ \- but he doesn’t lick or kiss her the way she wants him to. He just inhales deeply, creating a sensation of suction against her skin that drives her wild. She can feel his tongue, just a heartbeat away, moving around in his mouth, but he holds it back from her, just presses his lips in a hard seal at the perimeter of her most sensitive places and breathes her in.  
  
“Bellamy, _goddammit,”_ she pants, trying to lift her hips to him, but he lets go of her labia and moves his palms to her thighs, pressing them open against the mattress and holding them in place. She squirms, wriggles, gives a soft whimper of frustration - but she doesn’t beg, yet.  
  
So he lets his tongue just barely nudge the salty pink rosebud of her clit, prodding a gasp out of her, and then begins to tease her with fierce little licks, always just on the outskirts of where she wants him, never _quite_ enough to satisfy. His movements are dexterous and swift, refusing to stay in one place for long; he licks at her flesh until the faint beginnings of an orgasm begin to rumble deep in her body, and then he moves on to another spot, another bundle of nerve endings, another sensation, letting the previous one cool.  
  
He does this for so long they both lose track of time, and Abby begins to disappear from her own body, melting into a kind of blurry, dreamlike state where nothing exists except her cunt and his tongue. It’s as though a hundred different orgasms have begun, and then faded, in her body, as Bellamy’s mouth and beard and tongue tease and soothe her by turns. Sweat beads at her temples, trickling down into the streaks of gray in her hair that Bellamy’s realized he finds impossibly sexy, and runs in tiny rivulets between her breasts. She’s restless, writhing like she’s been struck with a fever, and her words become nothing more than incoherent panting.  
  
Still, she doesn’t beg.  
  
Bellamy’s tongue circles her clit, kisses the triangle of brown hair, darts in and out of the entrance to her cunt. He takes the thick, soft outer labia between his lips and nibbles at them lightly, then runs his tongue through the warm pink valley between her outer and inner folds. She wants him to wrap his lips around her clit and suck it until she comes, but he won’t. She knows it, and he knows she knows it. So instead he sucks and licks and kisses her everywhere else, beard and moustache growing sticky with her juices, tickling the impossibly delicate skin until she’s an absolute wreck beneath him.  
  
Still, she doesn’t beg.  
  
Finally he takes the pearl of her clit inside his mouth, giving it a rough, hungry suck, and her entire body arches up to meet him, desperate for release. He teases her entrance with one finger, then slides it in, and she shudders violently from head to toe at the sensation of being filled, even just this much.  
  
“Please,” she whispers, clutching desperately at his hair. “Bellamy, please. Please, I can’t . . . I need . . . please. Please.”  
  
_There it is._  
  
He lets his finger pump slickly in and out, feeling her muscles clench around it, as he sucks her clit harder and harder, and feels the biggest orgasm yet begin to swirl and swell inside her. “Please,” she keeps whimpering, voice raw and hoarse, “please, Bellamy, please.”  
  
He waits until he feels her climax approach its highest peak, and then just as she’s teetering on the precipice, about to tumble, he pulls away completely.

“No, baby, no,” she whines desperately, reaching out for him, “no, please, I need –"

“Tell me what you really need, Abby,” he murmurs, shifting his weight so his body blankets hers, nuzzling roughly into the hollow of her throat.  “Tell me what you want from me that you can’t give to yourself.”

“Bellamy, _please_ . . .”

“It’s not enough with just your fingers, is it?” he says, as she bites her lip and nods, eyes dark and desperate and fixed on his.  “You need more.”

“Yes.”

“You _love_ getting fucked, don’t you?” he says, awe in his tone, and it's not a question, it's a thing he suddenly knows.  “You like big men with big cocks, who fill you all the way up.  You were married for twenty years and you got used to having a big cock inside you every night.  Then Jake was gone, and you were alone again, and it was miserable. Then you met Kane. And for years, you got to have a big cock inside you every night again.  And now he’s not here, and it’s worse than before, and you're suffering, and it makes missing him a thousand times harder.” He kisses her neck, over and over again. “God, you’re so sexy I can’t stand it,” he murmurs. “There aren’t many women sure enough of themselves to just knock on someone’s door in the middle of the night because they’re craving the feeling of being filled up with cock.”

Abby’s whole face is flushed.  “It makes me insane when you talk to me like that,” she breathes.  “No one’s _ever_ talked to me like that.”

“So no one’s ever told you how good your pussy juices taste?” he says boldly, and she shivers underneath him, eyes wide with shock and pleasure.

“No,” she whispers.  “Keep going.”

“I want to fuck your tits, Abby,” he says hoarsely, clutching them roughly in his hands, “I want to watch you squeeze them together around my dick while I slide in and out and then come all over your face.”

 _“Jesus,_ Bellamy.”  Her eyes are wide with shock, mouth gaping open

“I fucking love the way you sucked my cock, Abby, no one’s ever sucked my cock like that before, I loved the way it felt when you drank my cum, when I could feel you swallowing it over and over –"

“Fuck me,” she demands, cutting him off, fisting his dark hair and yanking his head up to meet her gaze.  “If you want me to beg, I’ll beg. If you want to keep torturing me, I’ll let you. But I need you inside me, _now,_ because every word you say is making me absolutely crazy.”

“Beg me,” he whispers, taking his cock in one hand and teasing her folds open with the slick, flared head.  He’s so hard now that he’s nearly as desperate as she is, but he’s still barely holding onto control. She tries to lift up and pull him into her, but he’s too quick, lifting his cock away before she can steal any more.

“Please,” she whimpers, “please, Bellamy, _please.”_

“Tell me what you need.”

“I need you inside me, I need to be filled up, you were right, it’s not enough, I can’t give myself enough, it’s been too long, and I need, I need –"

“Shhhhh,” he murmurs, caressing her jaw, kissing her forehead.  “That’s all I needed to hear.”

Then he plunges inside her in one long stroke, bottoming out so hard the slap of his balls against her cunt is audible to them both.

 _“Fuck!”_ Abby cries out sharply, fingers digging into his back.  “Oh God, oh God, baby, it’s perfect, you’re _perfect_ , I need, I need –"

“I know,” he says, and his hips slam into hers, again and again and again.

He has to stay focused, it’s a precise game he’s playing here – he wants to fuck her so hard she falls apart in his arms, but he doesn’t want to let her come.  At least, not yet. Not until her hair is a tangled, sweaty mess and she’s too dazed to form coherent sentences and she's absolutely wrecked. And he can’t let _himself_ come, either, which is even harder, because it feels so fucking good to be inside Abby Griffin’s drenched cunt that he’s already devastated he’ll only get to be here once.

She’s _impossibly_ wet, thanks to the ministrations of his lips and tongue (and beard), and he’s embarrassed to realize the extent of his misconceptions about what childbirth does to women’s bodies, because she’s still so tight that they can both feel everything and he’s annoyed all over again that Kane got to have this _every single night._

“Tell me something dirty,” he whispers to her, slowing his thrusts until he's holding himself still inside her, feeling her clench desperately around his motionless cock.  “Say something dirty to me.”

“I can’t.”

“Yes, you can.”

“Bellamy -" she whimpers, shaking her head, cheeks flushed. And so even though it’s killing him, he pulls out of her, cock throbbing and soaked, and a whining high-pitched cry of need tumbles out of her lips as she claws frantically at his back. “No, baby, no, please don’t stop.”

“Let yourself go, Abby,” he whispers to her, mischief in his eyes as he looks down at her shattered, desperate, beautiful face.  “Say something you think will shock me.”

“I can’t, I can’t, I’m not - it’s _embarrassing,_ it turns me on when you do it because you’re _you,_ but I’m . . ."

“If you tell me how old you are one more time -"

“I’m a _grandmother,_ Bellamy, I can’t - I can’t -"

“Yes, you can.”

He teases the folds of her labia open with the tip of his dick again, tormenting her, and she writhes beneath him in misery. “Mean,” she says crossly, glaring at him.

“I told you the rules.”

“I . . . I . . ."

“You can do it,” he murmurs.  “You’ve been doing it all night, you just use different words.  You told me you thought my dick was pretty. You told me you needed to be filled up. You’ve been begging me to make you come.”  He kisses her neck again and again. “You know how to be dirty,” he chuckles into her ear. “You just don’t _know_ you know.”

Suddenly she slides both hands back up to his face, cupping his jaw, and pulls him up so their eyes meet. “Okay,” she murmurs hoarsely.  “Ask me why I’ve been avoiding you for three days.”

This is a surprise.

He raises his eyebrow. “Avoiding me, huh?”

“Ask me why," she insists again.

“Okay,” he says, sliding a hand down between her thighs to pet lightly at the damp, silky hair of her cunt.  “Why were you avoiding me, Abby?”

“Because I was ashamed of myself,” she whispers.  “Because when you were sitting on the exam table, I couldn’t stop thinking about your cock.”

Bellamy’s eyes widen, and heat rushes through his whole body.  “Tell me more,” he demands in a low voice. “Tell me everything.”

“When I touched your hair,” she whispers, “you closed your eyes, and I looked down, and I . . . I saw it.  You were getting hard. Right there in Med Bay. You were getting hard for _me._  I knew I should leave, I should send you away and have Jackson look you over later, it suddenly felt so dangerous to be alone with you, but you looked up at me suddenly with something in your eyes and I thought . . . I thought . . . “

“What did you think, Abby?”

“I thought you were going to bend me over the exam table and fuck me right there,” she whispers, like it’s a confession, and every word sets his skin on fire.  "And I realized I . . . I _wanted_ you to."

“So you hid from me for three whole days because you wanted me to fuck you?”

“No,” she says, turning her head, looking away, suddenly shy and unable to meet his gaze. “I was avoiding you because after you left, I bent myself over the exam table and I unzipped my jeans and I made myself come, right there, with three fingers inside of me, imagining that it was your cock.”

“Oh, _fuck,_ Abby -”

“And then after I finished, I felt so ashamed, and guilty - not because of Marcus, not that I thought Marcus would mind, but because I couldn’t really believe that you would want me like that.  I thought, ‘it was just a reflex of his body, and I’m old enough to be his mom, and this isn’t right,’ but I also couldn’t . . . stop . . ."

“What do you mean, you couldn’t stop?”

“For the past three days, every time I’m alone -”

“Oh, _Jesus,_ Abby -"

“Not just in bed, but in the shower, in my office . . . in the supply closet, once -”

“Oh my God.”

She can't meet his eyes, her blush has spread from her face down her throat and chest and shoulders, pink all over with mortification, and he's never been more turned on by anything in his life.  "I was so afraid that if I saw you, if I ran into you in the mess hall with Clarke or something, that you'd be able to see it on my face, somehow, that you'd _know_ \- that everyone would know - and I thought I could never look you in the eye again, after that."

“So you were just going to avoid me for the rest of our lives?” he asks, skeptically.  "That's a terrible plan.  What if I hurt my shoulder again?"

"I don't know. I don't know."

"So what changed tonight?" he asks, suddenly realizing there's a piece of the story she still hasn't explained.

She looks away, cheeks somehow even redder, which he didn't think was possible, like she’s come to the part that she’s most afraid to confess.  “Jacksonwaswithmeallday,” she mumbles into the pillow, almost unintelligible.

“What?”

“Jackson. Was with me. All day.”

It takes him a moment, and then he can’t help himself.

He bursts out laughing.

He laughs and laughs and laughs, tears streaming down his face, shoulders shaking, face buried in her shoulder. “It’s not funny,” she retorts, indignation in her voice, but he can hear the flicker of self-aware amusement hovering at the edges.

"Let me get this straight," he says.  "Jackson was hovering around you all day, which meant you couldn't get a break to sneak off alone to jerk off in your office.  Then by the time your shift ended you were a horny mess so you just went, ‘to hell with it,’ and marched straight to my door for a midnight hookup.”

"That's horrible," she protests, "you make it sound horrible.  It's so _undignified_ when you put it like that.”

“Undignified? From the woman hiding in the medical supply closet with three fingers up her cunt?”

Abby's foot made very pointed contact with his shins, not enough leverage from beneath his body for a real kick, but enough to make the point.  "That's it," she announced firmly, “I’m leaving right now.”

“No, you aren’t,” he murmurs, pressing a soft kiss onto her mouth, his smile of amusement turning into something heavy and warm and inviting.  “Didn’t you just tell me you’ve been waiting for me to make you come for three days? You _really_ think I’m going to send you back to an empty bed, and not deliver?”

“Oh, thank God,” she exhales, as he nudges the tip of his dick back towards her entrance.  “Please, Bellamy. I can’t take it anymore.”

“But you have to beg me for it,” he reminds her, a wicked grin tugging at one corner of his mouth.  “As filthy as you can.”

He expects her to demur again, but this time she doesn’t.  She clutches at his hair and tugs his head up to meet hers, so their eyes are locked on each other. “I need to be fucked,” she says to him, voice a little breathless but not timid at all.  “I need your cock inside me. I need to feel you stretch me open.”

“Keep going,” he murmurs, as the head of his cock finds her entrance and nudges slowly, slowly, slowly inside.

“I came so hard, thinking about you,” she whispers.  “Standing behind me, your hands holding my waist while I bent over - not even undressed, you’d just unzip my jeans and yank them down to my knees and then pull your dick out of your shorts and push into me from behind, because you’d know how wet I was already . . .”

"So wet," he agrees, pushing inside a bit more, then a bit more.  "Thinking about my dick inside you while you touched my hair."

"Yes."

"Did you imagine it like this?" he murmurs.  "Pulling my hair in bed? Touching it with me on top of you?"

"I did," she whispers, "God, I did, once I thought of it I couldn't stop. And your beard, I thought . . . I thought . . ."

"Say it."

"I wanted to feel your beard on my cunt," she says recklessly, surprising even herself.  "It feels so good, Bellamy, I wish I could show you, the way it feels to have your cunt licked by someone with a beard, the way it's excruciating and delicious all at the same time, and I missed it so much, I needed it so much, and when you pulled me close and told me to touch your face, I felt your beard under my fingertips and I thought, 'it would feel so good to kiss him,' and then I felt this ache, this emptiness, and I thought about you getting down on your knees in front of me, right there in Med Bay, where anyone could walk in and see us, and -"  She clutches at his face, pulling his mouth down to hers, seizing him in a frantic kiss, like her own words are turning herself on so much that she can't say anything more.

By the time she pulls away, she's trembling.

"It's time for you to come now," he says to her, pressing a kiss on her forehead.  "You've earned it.  You've been waiting so long."

"Will you come inside me?" she pants, as he pushes into her deeper and deeper.  "Will you fill me up?"

"If that's what you want."

"I do. I do.  I miss it, I need it, please . . ."

"Look at me," he murmurs, cradling her face, stroking her cheek until her eyes flutter back open.  "Stay with me.  We're going to come together."

She nods, wordlessly, hands impossibly tender as they caress his hair, and then he lets everything go. 

No more resistance.  No more pacing himself.  No more holding back.  No more teasing.  He just fucks and fucks and fucks her, and she fucks him back, bodies crashing together, moans rising into near screams, the smack of flesh on flesh so loud it feels obscene.  Her thighs lock around his body, her fingers twist and tangle as she clutches his hair by the fistful, holding his face just inches from hers so they can watch each other.

It's so much more than he could ever have imagined, the way her breasts bounce beneath him with every thrust, the way her hips push up greedily over and over, the way her mouth hovers open in an O of blissful astonishment as the tip of his dick presses hard, hard, hard against the textured flesh inside her, hitting that perfect spot every time.

"Come for me," he urges her, feeling the desperate clench of her muscles around him.  "Come on my dick, Abby.  Tell me how it feels."

"I've never been fucked this hard," she pants between gasping breaths, each word punctuated by the heaving of her breasts as their bodies move.  "You made me wait so long, I'm so wet, I'm so ready, I can feel it building, it's _so much,_ Bellamy, you're giving me so much, I'm afraid I'll -"

"You're so strong," he whispers, "you can take it, you can take all of me, you can take everything and give it all right back.  You're invincible, Abby."

"I'm so," she gasps, "it's so, it's too, I can't, I'm going to -"

And then she comes, finally, her whole body nearly levitating off the mattress, crying out so loudly that Bellamy finds himself overwhelmingly grateful for the impenetrable, soundproof steel walls of the prison ship.  "Oh God, oh fuck, _oh fuck,_ I'm, Bellamy, I'm, again, it's, I'm still . . ." and as her voice trails off he realizes that the first orgasm hit her with such force that a second followed right behind it.  Wondering how far he can push her, he slides one hand down between their bodies to find her drenched clit and presses down hard against it.  Abby's body jolts against his, whimpering, biting her lip, shaking her head even as she wriggles underneath him to take more and more, overwhelmed with conflicting sensations.

"It's too much," she whimpers.

"You can take it."

"Bellamy, I'm - you're - I feel _dizzy,_ I can't -"

"Don't you think I owe you one orgasm for each one you had to give yourself?" he murmurs, grinning down at her, and a breathless sound that's half a laugh, half a moan tumbles out of her lips.

"I don't know how many it was," she says breathlessly, "I lost count."

"Then I'd better give you at least a few more."

"But I need _you,"_ she whispers.  "I want you.  I want to feel you come inside me, Bellamy.  I need you to fill me up."

"I will, I promise," he says.  "I've been waiting for you for three days, too."

"It seems insane to me, that it's only been that long," she confesses.  "How did this happen to us so _quickly?"_

And something about the way she says it makes his heart leap in his chest, so eager he's embarrassed at himself. Because these aren't the words of a woman who just wanted one good fuck and then she'll be gone in the morning, never to speak of it again.

Something _happened_ to her.

And to him.

And he doesn't know what it is, or what it means, or how long it will last, or what will happen when she gets Kane back, but for the first time he feels the sharp, bright zing of hope deep inside himself, that maybe, just maybe, he won't have to give Abby Griffin up completely as soon as the two suns rise outside his window.

He can't put the way he feels into words just yet, so he puts it into his hands, and his cock, and stirs her body to another orgasm, this one deep and fierce and rumbling through her like a rockslide down a mountain, leaving her shuddering in his arms, eyes still open but distant and dazed, like she barely sees him anymore, but she's smiling, she's _happy,_ he made her _happy,_ he did what he promised her he would do and held the darkness at bay for as long as he could.

And so finally, finally, he lets go.

Abby feels it happening before it's even properly begun, and she pulls him down to her, cradling his dark head against her shoulder, fingers combing soothingly through his sweat-dampened curls.  "That's it," she murmurs.  "You don't have to hold on anymore, sweetheart.  Let it all go.  Let me take it all.  Come for me, Bellamy.  Let me feel you inside me."

"Abby," he groans into her throat, "fuck, Abby, I'm gonna, I'm, I'm -"

"You're doing so good," she purrs, kissing his hair.  "Don't hold back.  Give it all to me.  Let everything go."

"I'm so, it's, I'm close -"

"I know, baby, I know.  You've been holding it in for so long."

She lets go of his hair and her arms circle his back, stroking his skin with soothing, gentle fingertips. One hand burns warm against the hollow between his shoulderblades, resting against his vertebrae, while the other slides down the slope of his back and finds his ass.  She caresses the skin, her touch intoxicating, as he feels fire building up between his thighs, growing closer and closer to bursting.  Then one finger slips delicately, startlingly, between the two taut mounds, and brushes a touch so light its almost accidental against the tight little opening, and something happens to Bellamy that he doesn't understand.  His whole body flinches with astonished pleasure (how does she _do_ this, continuing to find places he didn't know he liked to be touched?) and she doesn't push inside but he suddenly realizes with a start that he _wants_ her to, a brand-new desire he's never even considered suddenly rising up fully-formed in front of him, the idea of . . . _something_ inside him, there, as he fucks Abby's sweet warm cunt, and then _oh fuck,_ oh God, he's coming, he's pouring into her so hard his thighs are shaking, thrust after thrust after thrust, feeling her stroke his sweat-sheened skin with comforting hands as hot rivers of white liquid, one after another after another, flood her cunt, so much that she can't hold it, he feels it begin to run back down his shaft and coat both their thighs, but still he can't stop, it doesn't stop, he didn't know he could hold this much, every time he thinks he's empty there's more, and Abby holds him tight against her soft warm body as the longest orgasm of his life crashes over him again and again like tidal waves breaking on a rocky shore.

When it's finally over, his cock too soft to stay inside her anymore, sliding out with a deliciously obscene, wet _pop!,_ he collapses against her, rolling off her body just enough to avoid crushing her beneath his weight, but still half-draped across her slender frame, legs tangled together, skin on sweaty skin.

"I've never," he finally chokes out, "it's never - in my whole life -" 

He trails off, the sentence unfinishable.

"I know," she says, a hundred emotions crowded into those two words.  "I know."


	3. you're missing (when i see the sun rise)

_**"Don't go far off, not even for a day,  
** **because I don't know how to say it - a day is long**_  
_**and I will be waiting for you, as in**_  
**an empty station when the trains are**  
**parked off somewhere else, asleep."**

**-Pablo Neruda**

* * * * *

It's silent for a long, long time, after that.

They're both exhausted, bodies too spent and shattered to move.  Anything resembling coherent speech is impossible, even _thought_ is too much effort, but they can't turn off the overwhelming and unexpected maelstrom of emotions churning through them.  So they lie awake, in confused and complicated silence, staring into the darkness at the ceiling of the prison ship. Every sensation is heightened.  The hammering of Bellamy's heart beneath Abby's cheek is like a military drum, too deep and too fast for his still body and quiet breathing to deceive her that he's asleep.  Meanwhile, her legs have tangled around one of his, her cunt pressed up against his thigh, and from time to time he imagines he feels her moving, nowhere near ready for another climax but still savoring the feel of him against her.

They lie still in the dark silence for so long they lose all track of time, her head pillowed on his chest, her hair draped over his shoulder, both of their bodies drenched with sweat, cum everywhere, their skin flushed and superheated like they're suffering from fever. Both find themselves grateful, for the first time, for the drafty chambers of the Eligius ship, its chilly air offering blissful relief.

Abby gets up once, for the bathroom, and when he turns his head to watch her naked body return to the bed - starlight from the room's high window playing across her pale skin - he sees a washcloth in her hand.  She stops at the edge of the bed, lifting one small foot to rest on the frame, and he watches her silently as she washes her body right there in front of him, her belly and cunt and the inside of her thighs.  Then she kneels, and runs the cloth - damp and warm and now scented of her - over his skin, over his legs and his torso and his sleepy, sticky cock.  The cool air feels even better against the damp, as water evaporates from his flushed skin.  She discards it on the table before climbing back into the bed and curling up into his arms.

"Thanks," he mumbles, not sure what else to say.

"Better?" she asks.  "Things got a little . . . messy.  In a very nice way," she adds, pressing a kiss against his chest.

Bellamy looks down at her, as her sweat-dampened hair brushes his chest.  "You seem so relaxed," he says, in a tone of surprise.

"Aren't you? After coming so much? God, just getting out of bed exhausted me all over again."

"No, I didn't mean like that," he explains, "I was afraid you'd be -"

"Embarrassed?"

"Maybe.  Or uncomfortable.  I think there was a part of me that expected you to pick up your clothes and leave as soon as we were done."

"You've really underestimated how lazy I am after sex," she says lightly.

He chuckles a little at this.  "It certainly worked to my benefit tonight."

"Is it okay with you?" she asks softly.  "If I stay the night?"

"I'd hate it if you didn't," he says candidly as she curls up in his arms, aglow with drowsy contentment, her body small and warm and perfect against his.  He kisses her hair, his heart _still_ not recovered yet, and then he asks the one thing he fucking _swore_ to himself he wouldn't ask:

"So what happens now?"

"Sleep, hopefully," Abby murmurs between kisses, her mouth warm on his chest, "and then a 9 a.m. prenatal checkup with Diyoza. You?"

_"Abby,"_ he intones her name soberly, and she props herself up her elbow, meeting his gaze in the dark. Their eyes have adjusted, and they can see each other clearly in the starlight.  "You know what I mean," he reproaches her gently.  "I mean what happens between _us,_ after this.  And . . . what happens after Kane wakes up."

"I know," she says softly.  "We need to talk about that."

"You were very clear, at the beginning," he says, and he hates himself for the flicker of bitterness at the edges of his voice, hates how petty he feels.  "About the terms of the arrangement.  I knew what I was getting into.  Or, I thought I did."

"I know," she agrees heavily, "I thought I did too.  But everything's different now."

"Was it not . . . what you needed?"

"It was _exactly_ what I needed," she tells him.  "That's the problem."  His arm tightens around her back. Her nose bumps his chest.  "And there's . . . another factor," she adds carefully, "which complicates things, and which is a conversation I think both of us should be a little bit more awake for."

She doesn't sound upset, but she does sound serious, and he feels his heart crash from his chest to the floor.

"I'm awake," he says.  "I haven't been able to fall asleep at all.  And to be honest, I'd rather just  . . . clear the air now."

"Okay," she says, switching on the dim bedside lamp and propping herself up onto his elbow.  "Total honesty?"

"Total honesty," he agrees. 

"Then let's start with you. Is there anything you want to ask me?"

A hundred things. A thousand things. _What makes your skin so soft? Why did you decide to become a doctor? Who is Clarke named after? Was this the most you've ever come in one night?_

"So, the deal you and your husband made with your friend,” he begins, trying to be pragmatic here.  “What was her name?”

“Callie.”

“Callie.  Was it one-way or two-way?”

She raises one eyebrow, amused.  “Are you asking if _I_ ever had sex with Callie?”

"I take it back. _That's_ my first question. And if yes, please tell me everything immediately. Super graphic."  She laughs and elbows him in the ribs. “No," he amends, "what I meant was – did you and Jake have a deal that applied to _both_ of you, or a deal that only applied to Jake?”

“Oh,” she says.  “No. Or, well, I suppose, yes, technically. I mean, I was free to do it too, if it came up, but it just never did."

“Not even with Kane?”

Abby appears to find this hilarious.  _“Especially_ not with Kane, back in those days,” she laughs.  “God, can you imagine? Well, I mean, _you_ can't, you were a toddler then, but the idea of me and _that_ Kane, back then? I would have slapped him in the face even for asking."

This is interesting to him.  "I always thought of you two as these people with decades of history, who only really came into conflict when we landed on the ground," he says.  "You're saying the way it was, back at Camp Jaha, the constant fighting - it was _always_ like that?"

"Off and on," she says, "but mostly on.  I was the smartest girl in the class, and he was the smartest boy.  The rivalry for who got the best grades began early."

"Jesus, I would have hated you both."

"You definitely would have."

"So there was no one?" he presses.  "The whole time you were married to Jake? You never thought about it?"

She shakes her head.  "He was my first," she explains.  "I'd never slept with anyone but him, which means I'd never slept with anyone I didn't love enough to marry.  And he did say - he always said - that if there was ever anyone else, for me, that I should tell him, and we'd make that work too.  And that if anything ever happened to him . . . I mean, if he went first -"  She pauses, suddenly, taking a moment to collect herself.  "He told me that if he went first, I should know he would want me to move on, without ever feeling guilty.  That he'd want me to be happy again.  That helped much, much later, of course, when Marcus and I were first beginning to explore what we were to each other.  But the idea of a casual thing, what he and Callie had, I just wasn't wired that way.  Because it actually did work.  I mean, for all of us.  It really was easy, and clean, and it didn't change what any of us had.  He would go over there, and have very nice sex, he'd release all his pent-up tension, but he was a good guy, he always took care of Callie too, I mean it wasn't like he was _using_ her.  She was single then, and we'd all been friends since birth, practically, and it just . . . seemed to click.  He told me all about it, many many times, after I'd had Clarke and I was nursing and I got all the fun hormones back - along with the extra cup size," she adds with a wink that makes his spent cock twitch between his thighs, making her giggle like a teenager.  "I kept wondering, you know, 'Can this really work, won't it erupt one day, isn't someone going to get hurt?'  But no one did.  It didn't affect his friendship with Callie, or Callie's with me, and when it was over we just went right back to where we'd been before, except maybe all three of us were closer.  And that was astonishing to me, that both of them could do that.  I wasn't sure, then, if I ever could."

_Can you, now?_ he desperately wants to ask, but doesn't. _Have you changed? Can you fuck someone without falling for them, and then get up and leave in the morning? What happens if you can't?  What happens if_ I _can't?_

“So you and Marcus,” he goes on.  “You had . . . a similar arrangement?”

She hesitates. "Yes and no," she says.  "I told him about Jake and Callie, at the very beginning, when we were in Polis.  When everything was giddy and easy and we were still getting to know each other and first learning how to fall in love again.  He'd dated Callie on and off, himself, though that was decades later, and I think he was . . . intrigued, and maybe a little turned on by the whole thing.  How bohemian and free-spirited it all was.  So unlike how Marcus learned to view sex, when he was younger, as something that was always desperately serious.  He did seem surprised that it was my idea, though mostly I think he was confounded by the idea of an Abby who'd sworn off orgasms for that long."

“It does seem kinda out of character, yeah.”

He gets a light kick in the shins for this, before she goes on.  "Anyway, he told me that if anything ever happened to him, he saw no objection to a similar arrangement, to make sure I was taken care of while he was gone. I offered him the same, of course, but he brushed it off. Never showed any interest."

“That doesn’t surprise me," says Bellamy.  Fidelity has always been one of Kane's cardinal virtues.

"I brought it up with him more than once, actually," she goes on.  "I mean, to try and get him to take me up on it.  In the bunker. When I was . . .” She hesitates. “Sick.”

Bellamy's heart twists in his chest.

They've never talked about it.  Not once.  Why would they, of course, it's not like before this he considered himself one of her close confidantes, and he can hardly blame her for not considering it a topic for casual mess hall conversation.  He's talked about it with Clarke, with Raven, even with Madi, all of whom experienced their own kinds of trauma for which periodic nightmares still haunt them.  But he's never heard Abby's own story - how it shaped _her,_ that brutal plummet into addiction and slow, painful climb back up to the light.  It's there, of course, all the time, in hundreds of little things ("you can get the painkillers from Jackson," she'd said that night in Med Bay, a detail that hadn't escaped Bellamy; whether by Jackson's rule or hers, Abby would not go to the medicine closet when he wasn't there). 

He thinks about that Abby - that lonely, suffering Abby, trapped underground in Blodreina’s kingdom of hell, her daughter lost, her friends scattered or dead, her body in excruciating pain after the neurological trauma inflicted by ALIE's chip and its forced removal. Kane and Jackson were all she had, and Jackson could only do so much.  He finds it easy to imagine sex as a powerful, connective thread, healing the fractures, binding them close, helping Kane and Abby hold onto each other when everything around them was falling apart.

No, he thinks to himself. Marcus Kane would never.  Not even when Abby was well, but _especially_ not when had no one else to lean on.

"I suggested Indra, a couple of times," she says.  "Niylah would have been perfect, if she liked men. Even Kara Cooper, once.  But he shot it down every time.  He was angry, actually.  Offended.  He hated the implication that he was the kind of man who would cheat on me when I was sick." 

This definitely sounded like Kane.

"He didn't understand that I would have felt better if he'd done it," she says.  "Or, well, that's a lie.  I wouldn't have.  I didn't _want_ him to go have sex with Indra, not really, but I told myself that I did; because I wouldn't have felt quite so guilty for being a burden to him if I'd thought he had someone else.  And then, when things were . . . at their worst, between us, in Shallow Valley," she goes on, voice unsteady, "when he left with Diyoza, I assumed _something_ must have happened.  It seemed like a good fit. She always liked him.  And Lord knows _she_ deserved a nice night with a good man who would take care of her, after being trapped so long with company so dire that her best option was McCreary.”

“Did they?” Bellamy asks, fascinated.  Kane and Diyoza. He’d never even have _considered_ it.

“Not even once,” Abby tells him.  “I asked her. 'You're out of your fuckin' mind, Doc,' she told me. 'All he ever did was talk about you.’”

A word suddenly lands in his mind, one she'd tossed off lightly but now he's concerned she might have meant it.  "Is that really how you felt, when you were pregnant, and didn't want to have sex?" he asks her.  "Like you were a _burden_ to Jake?"

She laughs a little, but there's something uncomfortable in it, hollow, like she's revisiting old memories and finding them suddenly altered.  "Maybe 'burden' is the wrong word," she amends, waving it off.  "Just that I knew didn't have to worry that he was unhappy if someone else was helping take care of him."

If Bellamy's being perfectly, entirely honest with himself in this moment, it actually makes him like Jake Griffin a little less that the man hadn't figured this out himself.  He doesn't say this out loud, but he seethes on it for a moment.  Not to notice, when his wife suggests he fuck her best friend while she's pregnant, that perhaps it came less from a doctor's casual pragmatism about sex and more from a deep and primal fear - one buried so deep she still could not even acknowledge it to herself, twenty-four plus a hundred and twenty-five years later - that she could lose him.

And Jesus, if it were even possible, he likes Marcus Kane _even more,_ for the way he sees so deeply to the core of her.  He'd known what it was, every time, and he'd shut it down firmly and swiftly, refusing for even a moment to stoke her fears.  He had not left her in the bunker, and he had not left her in Shallow Valley, until things had reached such a breaking point that he feared she could no longer be reached; and while yes, _be honest, Bellamy,_ there's a small part of him that wants to grab the man by the shoulders and shout "How could you leave her, at that moment, when she needed you most?", he knows it's hypocritical.  After all, he had to draw boundaries with Octavia too.  He'd done things that looked, on the surface, like cruelty, but were really the only way he had left to protect her.

No, he won't judge Kane for leaving Abby in Shallow Valley. 

Especially since even then, alone with another woman - one who was also a fiercely protective mother, who was also sharp and clever and strong, and genuinely beautiful even in a bulky miner's suit - he had done nothing except talk to her about his love for Abby.

"You told me you weren't sure you were wired that way," he says slowly.  "The way Jake and Callie seemed to be.  You said you didn't think you could be with someone just for a night, like that.  If Jake was your first, and there was only Marcus after that, then you've only -"

"Been with three men in my life," she says.  "Yes.  My husband, and my . . . well, almost-husband.  And then, tonight."

"How do you feel?" he asks her.  "Do you feel guilty?"

He doesn't want to ask, he's so afraid of her answer, so afraid she'll look at him with apology in her eyes and tell him she can't do this anymore and he'll have to remain her dirty secret forever.

But she doesn't.

She considers it, for a long moment, face deep in thought, before finally shaking her head.  "No guilt," she says, and his guts collapse in relief.  "I might, maybe, if it was someone else. I don't know.  It's impossible to say.  But it's obviously different, since it's you."

She says it almost absently, like they're talking about something Bellamy too will obviously, definitely know, and he's so startled by the peculiar something in his voice that he reaches out to touch her cheek with his fingertips and bring her gaze back up to his. "What do you mean?" he asks, trying to keep the urgency out of his voice.  "Why is it different? What's different about me?"

"Because of Marcus," she says, patiently, like he's a moron, and his baffled irritation must show on his face because her eyes suddenly go wide with astonishment, and she sits up in the bed to look down at him, surprise etched all over her face.  _"Oh,"_ she whispers, like she's realizing something.  "Oh God, you poor thing.  You don't even know."

"Know what?" he demands, and her answer is so unexpected - comes so far out of left field - that he feels like he's had all the air punched out of his stomach.

“Have you ever been with a man, Bellamy?”

He's stunned into mumbling incoherence, at this.  "Have I - what? Why would - Of _course_ not. How could you - what would make you _ask_ me that?"

She sits up taller and folds her arms across her chest.  "Don't you say ‘of course not’ to me like that," she warns him, "like I just asked you if you've ever burned down a building.  Remember whose mother I am."

_Like he could forget._

"I didn't mean because it's bad," he hastens to assure her.  "Or that I have a problem with it.  I don't.  Not at all.  It's just . . . I mean, it's for _other_ people.  It's not for me.  It's never crossed my mind, to be honest."

"It's been crossing your mind all night, honey," she tells him gently.  "That's what I'm trying to say."

_"What?"_ he exclaims, genuinely stunned.

"It's why you're the one I wanted," she says in a low voice.  "It's why it feels like that, between us.  Why it's . . . special."

_She's using the present tense, not the past,_ he thinks, and tries not to let hope bubble up into his chest at such a small thing. _Maybe . . . maybe . . ._

 She leans in and kisses his mouth softly, guiding him onto his back, straddling him, her slim hand slipping down between his thighs to give his cock a long, loving stroke before her fingers slip back behind it.  Bellamy gives a convulsive, shuddering gasp as he feels her fingertip delicately stroke the tight little opening of his ass once more.  “The way you make me feel, when you’re inside me,” she whispers. “Don’t you want to know what that's like?”

_She can't possibly mean what it sounds like she means.  She can't possibly mean what it sounds like she means.  She can't possibly -_

“You asked me what happens after this,” she murmurs.  “When Marcus is out of cryo and healed again.”  She kisses his mouth. “We did a lot of things tonight that I’ve never done before,” she says a little playfully.  “It could be your turn, next, for us to try something _you’ve_ never done.”

She presses her fingertip against his opening – not entering him, just sparking a shock of sensation on a part of his body no one’s ever touched like this – and he feels white-hot electricity rocket through him, surging into his cock.

Oh God, she’s right.  He really does like this.  He really does want it.

_How did she know?_

She withdraws her finger, to slide it slickly through her cunt before returning it, now wet with sticky heat, to its post.  All she does is press lightly, one wet finger tracing lazy circles with the velvet pad of her fingertip, but oh God, oh God, it's _everything,_ and Abby smiles warmly as he shudders, cock waking itself back up, making itself known and demanding to be tended.

She kisses his hair affectionately.  "Come here," she says to him, draping one leg over his hip to open herself up and guiding him inside, exhaling slowly with drowsy pleasure as he fills her up again.  Lying on their sides, their movements are slow and their angle shallow – he can’t pound into her like before – so everything is softer, intimate, more relaxed.  But her finger stays in place, teasing his entrance, as her hips undulate against his, and he buries his head in her shoulder, shuddering with pleasure at the thought of a third body in this bed, hard and strong and warm, curled up behind him, a broad chest pressed against his back, strong arms wrapped around both of them, and the feeling of thick, hot weight pressing him open, open, open, open, open . . .

Bellamy dissolves in her arms, all his dominance of the previous hours gone, and he lets her do everything to him – lets her tease his virgin ass, lets her ride his aching cock, lets her cradle him to her breast and kiss his dark hair.

“Oh, honey,” she murmurs.  “I can feel it, in your whole body.  I can feel exactly what you want."

“Does this mean we don’t have to stop?” he whispers before he can stop himself.  “That we can still – that I’m not losing you?”

She presses a soft kiss against his mouth, pressing forward to pull him deeper into her and exhaling a blissful sigh. "I thought once would be enough," she confesses softly. "That I'd feel better. That I could be like Jake, just have one easy, wonderful night with you and then leave it there." She closes her eyes and rests her forehead against his. "But I can't bear the thought of never having this again," she whispers.  "Especially now that I know that it's not just me you want."

"Abby . . ." he groans, hips rocking into hers, shivering with desire.  "Fuck, Abby."

"Ask me to say something dirty to you again."

"Do it. Tell me."

"I've never had two cocks inside me at once," she says breathlessly, her finger leaving his ass to rub her own soaked clit, "and I've never watched men fuck each other. And I want both."

Bellamy's whole body convulses, shuddering, arousal burning through him like flames through paper. 

Abby in the center, with Kane and Bellamy fucking her together.

Bellamy in the center, with Abby's cunt around his cock, and Kane -

Abby's finger returns, slicked in wetness, and pushes lightly inside.

_"Fuck,"_ Bellamy exhales a slow, ragged groan of pure desperation, the word stretching out like it has a dozen syllables instead of one.

"More?"

Too much. Can't speak. Only nods. _Yes, more._

"Want me to teach you where your prostate is?" she asks, finger sliding in a little deeper, up to the knuckle, and then a little deeper, and a little deeper, and then suddenly she touches some deeply-buried place inside his body and _something happens_ and Bellamy comes so fast he can't catch his breath, his groans raw and animalistic and needy and naked and so loud it's embarrassing, just one long astonished wail of shock and confusion and pleasure as his cock bursts inside her.

He leans his forehead against hers, panting for breath, shoulders shaking, and it's a long time before he collects himself enough to speak.

_"Jesus,"_ he chokes out.  "What the _fuck_ did you just do to me?"

"Bellamy," she says patiently, "did you not know you were bisexual until just now?"

"What are you talking about?"

She gives his cheek a gentle pat, amused and fond and almost maternal and a tiny bit patronizing.  "Men," she says affectionately.  "God, you're slow."

"Hey now."

"Honey," she sighs.  _"Think_ about it."

And he does.

He thinks about Mount Weather, about Kane putting a hand on his shoulder and murmuring, _"You did good. Now let's get our people home."_ He thinks about the way it felt to be seen by him, finally,not as another reckless dumb kid interchangeable with John Murphy, but as a leader. A _man._

He thinks about the easy intimacy of peacetime in Arkadia - their walks together, their long conversations in the guard tower, their cautious and painstakingly-built trust.

He thinks about Charles Pike.

He thinks about Kane's devastated betrayal when Bellamy sided against him, the way he never stopped fighting to get him back.  That Kane would shocklash Pike - his oldest friend left on Earth, besides Abby and Jaha - and turn him over to the Grounders for execution, because it was what his sense of justice deemed necessary and right; but he wouldn't hurt Bellamy to do it.

He thinks about the Rover at the gate, about how they'd both known instantly how this would all end, because Kane would never run Bellamy down and Bellamy would never shoot Kane, so neither of them could do anything but hold there, in stasis, until the rest of the world came crashing in on them.

He thinks about Pike's low, sad, sonorous voice pronouncing a sentence of death, and the way Kane's head swiveled slowly, slowly, slowly, his expression entirely unreadable, to meet Bellamy's eyes, and the white-hot knife of guilt in his chest as he realized how far everything had spiraled out of control.

He thinks about Lincoln, and how he'd known better than to expect compassion from Octavia but how it had cracked his heart open inside his chest to realize he'd receive none from Kane either.  Kane, who would never know how hard Bellamy had tried to save him.

He thinks about the Rover, stuck in the black rain, and how it had stung him in some unexpected and startling way - surprising even himself - to hear Kane speak to him in such a paternal voice.  _"Your mother would be proud of the man you've become.  I know I am."_ He didn't know then - though he thinks, perhaps, he's beginning to know now - why that had made him so angry, why it had felt like a kind of rejection,why he had so deeply resented the idea of Kane seeing himself as a kind of father.  He thinks about the sad, hollow look on the older man's face as they stood there in the mud, outside the gates, mourning two more souls lost that Bellamy couldn't save, the rift between them wider than it had ever been.

He thinks about the Ark, about sleeping in Kane's bed, reading Kane's books in Kane's chair, standing naked in Kane's shower, looking out Kane's window at the planet below where Kane was buried miles underground, and how he'd comforted himself with the thought that at least he and Octavia would have an opportunity to repair their own fractured relationship.

He thinks about the bunker, and the horrifying moment of realization that if they'd arrived ten seconds later, he'd have dropped to the ground in the center of the fighting pit with Marcus Kane's dead body at his feet, Octavia standing over him with a bloody sword.  Bellamy had held it together as long as there were witnesses, but had made his way to the nearest bathroom the second he was alone and dropped to his knees, vomiting and shaking with tears running down his face.  That she had become _this,_ somehow, that her brother's absence had turned her into this, that she was so far gone she would draw her sword on _Kane_ \- of all people - Kane, the first of the Sky People who'd truly and genuinely believed in her.

How many times would Marcus Kane come close to death because of Bellamy, and why did it rip his heart in half every time?

But he'd saved him, too.  He'd saved him in the bunker, though he hadn't known it.  And he'd saved him on the ship, realizing before anyone else did - even Abby - that the cryopods would keep him alive and unharmed for as long as she needed.

He's never understood, until now, why it never felt like enough, why the debt always seemed insurmountable, why the guilt was so hard to wash away.

And then Abby Griffin had touched him someplace no one else had ever touched him in all his life and suddenly he knew the answer to everything.

"Oh, no," is all he can say.

Abby laughs, and presses a kiss to his mouth.  "That's the tricky thing," she says.  "For men who like men, but for women who like women, too.  Before you know what to call it.  Sometimes you think you want to _be_ them, when really you want them to take you bed." She ruffles his hair.  "It always got under your skin, a little, when he was too fatherly with you," she observes.  "I noticed that.  And then you'd snap back, like a rebellious teenage son."

This was impossible to argue with.

"And you never asked yourself, of course," she goes on, " _why_ he leaned so hard into trying to have that kind of relationship.  Because it was a way to be close to you, intimate with you, touch you, that still felt safe.  So he wouldn't frighten you away."

Bellamy stares at her, the meaning of her words finally sinking in.

"That's what you meant, when you said you knew Kane wouldn't mind," he murmured.  "That it was different with me, that I was special.  That I was safe.  Because you knew there was a chance, when he came back, that he - that we - "

"Marcus would trust you to take care of me, without being jealous of him or trying to come between us," she tells him.  "He knows the kind of man you are, and on some level, even if he never put the right name to it, he knows how much he matters to you.  If I had just wanted an anonymous one-night stand, there are dozens of strapping and muscular prison miners stuck on this ship with us," she adds dryly, "and I have access to their medical records, so I could pick out the ones that are reasonably clean."  Bellamy laughs.  "But it would never work with any man but you, don't you see?" she continues earnestly.  "With someone else, either the sex would be bad - which would make everything even more miserable - or the sex would be good, in which case he might want more than I was able to give him, and resent the man I loved.  Which could be dangerous," she adds, "since everyone on the ship knows how precarious his state is, and how the slightest interference with the cryopod controls could kill him without anyone even realizing it until it's too late."

"But you knew I would never do anything to hurt him."

She nods.  "And I thought I might even know why."

"Does he know?" Bellamy whispers.

"I doubt it," she says, voice tinged with both fondness and amusement.  "He definitely doesn't know that you want _him_ , but I'm also not sure he even knows how badly he wants _you."_

_He wants you._

The words hit Bellamy with the force of a blow.

"If we don't stop," Abby says thoughtfully, "I could help . . . prepare you.  For when he's back.  For the three of us to be together."

Bellamy swallows hard.  "Prepare me?"

"He's a very . . . big man," she says lightly, as Bellamy's whole face flushes beet-red.  "I'm going to need to work with you for awhile, before you're ready."

"You mean so he can -" _(oh God he can't say it without picturing it, making his spent cock twitch)_ " - fuck me in the ass."

"You'll like it," she assures him, with a mischievous smile.  "I know I do."

Bellamy's jaw drops. “Really?”

"Really."

“Women like it like that?”

She pats his cheek, grinning at him.  “For a boy who flaunted a fairly public threesome within, like, ten minutes of the dropship landing on the ground,” she chides him, “you’re really rather adorably sheltered.”

“I didn’t know you knew about that,” he mumbles.

"Six years stuck in a bunker with Miller," she informs him.  "Jackson wanted us to spend more time together, so the four of us went on some fairly awkward double dates.  Lots of long, painful silences while we all desperately tried to think of new conversational topics, once Marcus informed Jackson and I that we weren't allowed to talk about work.  Then, one day, we realized that Miller was in possession of months' worth of gossip, from before the rest of us landed, and he did not share the same kind of reticence about filling me in on the gory details that my daughter had.  I know a bit more about her and Finn than I would like, but I also know a great deal about you.  Threesomes, moonshine, hallucinogenic tree nuts . . . he gave up all the gossip."

"I'm not . . ." He hesitates.  "The kid I was, when we landed," he tells her.  "I wouldn't want you to think -"

She shuts him up with a kiss.  "I know, sweetheart," she says.  "You don't have to explain yourself to me."

“It wasn’t all drinking and fucking,” he points out.  

Abby nods. “I know,” she says.  “I know about Wells, now.  Clarke never told me what really happened.  Thelonious never knew the truth.  I can't help feeling maybe that was a kindness. God, that poor Charlotte.  For the Ark to lock up _children_ like that . . . we failed her, all of us.”  She kisses his hair. “I see it with Madi,” she tells him, voice full of deep compassion.  “Every time you see a little girl, you see a second chance to repair the mistakes you think you made with Octavia.  You can’t turn off that big brother heart. But you didn’t fail Charlotte, Bellamy, and you didn’t kill Wells.”

He closes his eyes, _God, don't start crying now, with a naked woman in your arms,_ and it takes him a moment to compose himself.  When he opens them again, she's looking at him with a question in her eyes.

"Truth, now," she warns him.  "I'll know if you're lying to me."  Curious, he nods.  "Back then, all you knew about me - about Jake, about his death - was Clarke's version of the story.  And she was in so much pain, then, it was all too raw for her to really understand it.  Why I did what I did, and the choices we all made.  She could never see fault in Jake.  They were always so close.  The answer couldn't be that Jake was reckless; it would have to be that I was cruel.  So she was devastated, and wanted to punish me, after she lost Wells.  But I wonder," she adds, eyes meeting his.  "Because of all that . . . did you think I was going to be a monster before you met me?"

He thinks for a moment, tries to remember.  It was so long ago, and Abby was a faceless blank to him then, important only in the context of Clarke.  "I don't know," he finally says truthfully.  "I didn't know what to think of you.  I mean, I understood why she was hurt, and I didn’t fight her on it."  Abby nods; she'd expected no less.  "But I also know a little something about holding onto whatever family you've got," he adds.  "And even then, I didn't like the idea of her cutting herself off from you.  She didn't know what losing a mom really feels like.  But I did.  And I knew I didn't want that for her."

She kisses him for that - grateful for his friendship to her daughter, grateful he was there for Clarke to lean on, but grateful also that in some distant, unknowing, abstract way, without even realizing it, Abby herself, and her relationship with Clarke, had already begun to matter to him.

“Was I like you expected, once you did meet me?” she asks curiously.  "Don't worry, you won't offend me."

“I remember being grateful that you were willing to get shocklashed just to sneak me and Finn out of camp to Mount Weather with guns,” he says, “and then pissed when you got Clarke back and wouldn’t risk it again for the rest of the kids.  I understand you better now, I think, than I used to. I didn’t realize then that we were the same.”

“Everything I did for Clarke, you would have done for Octavia.”

“Damn straight,” he agrees, “even though sometimes the things we did were really goddamn stupid.”

“Poor Marcus,” she sighs fondly.  “That brief period where he had to keep _both_ of us out of trouble simultaneously was probably one of the worst times in his life.”

“Wonder what he’s going to say when he wakes up, and finds out what kind of trouble we got into this time.”

“I think,” says Abby, stretching lazily and kissing his mouth lightly, “that he’d remind you you haven’t made me come yet, a crime Marcus takes _very_ seriously.”  

"Is that so."

"I would never lie about something so important."

"I've never met a woman like you in my whole life," he says, and the whole mask crumbles for a moment, no quips, no posturing, it's just abject wonder and awe.

She takes his hand by the wrist and guides it down between her thighs. “This way,” she says. “I like your mouth, and I'll want it again later, but right now I’d rather have you kiss me.”

So he does.

He kisses her sweet and slow, his fingers curling perfectly inside her as he rolls her onto her back and blankets her with his body.  She gazes up at him, hair a wild honey-colored tumble against the dull gray pillowcase, eyes dark and warm and full of affection, hands cupping his jaw so she can caress his beard as his mouth sweeps hotly over hers.  "Perfect," she murmurs, as he presses up into her, eliciting a blissful exhale of pleasure.  He's gentle with her this time, like she was with him, and it's a revelation to Bellamy that you can want someone in all these different ways at once.  Abby somehow makes him want to cradle her in his arms, _and_ throw her up against the wall to fuck her from behind.  He wants to learn every detail of her childhood and also how loud he can make her scream.  He wants everything about her.

But he doesn't want to take it for himself, he realizes suddenly.  He doesn't want to possess her.  He doesn't want Abby to belong to him.

He wants them to share this.

All of it, in every direction.

He wants to learn every detail of Kane's childhood too, and maybe be cradled in Kane's arms, but also, _oh God,_ the other thing is there too, just thinking about it makes him shaky and feverish and causes his pulse to race.

_"I'll help prepare you for him,"_ she had said.

"You're thinking about him, aren't you?" she murmurs as she caresses his face.  "You're thinking about us."  He nods.  "Tell me what you're thinking about," she whispers, between soft little accelerating gasps.  "Tell me what you want.  I want to hear you say it."

His fingers drive in and out of her cunt, thumb pressing firmly against her clit, as he closes his eyes and rests his forehead on hers. "I want it the way you said," he tells her, voice low, hesitant, almost a whisper.  "I want it to be all of us.  I want you, I don't think I can stop wanting you, but I also want . . . I want _him."_

"Good, baby," she whispers encouragingly, "keep going."

"I want to know what it feels like to be inside you while he's inside you.  I want us to hold you in our arms together.  I want to watch you with him, I want him to watch us, and I . . . I want . . ."

"I'm going to come, sweetheart," she pants, cheeks flushed, hands sliding down to circle his back and pull him down against her.  He buries his mouth in her throat.  "Tell me while you make me come."

"I want you both to fuck me together," he breathes into her ear, fingers pressing down hard against her G-spot, and then she comes apart in his arms.

"I want that too, baby," she whispers into his sweat-tangled hair as her body softens into the mattress, heart and breath slowing back down into stillness as the orgasm recedes. "I want that too."

He rolls off her spent, sated body, pulls her into his arms, lets her head sink down against his chest, cheek pressed against his heart.

This time, they sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> another one from the kink meme - https://100kinkmeme.livejournal.com/3621.html?thread=864805#t864805. I took the liberty of making a "Bellamy x any female character" prompt into Bellabby because I was so bummed nobody else had written anything for them.
> 
> Fic and chapter titles taken from "You're Missing" by Bruce Springsteen, sorrynotsorry for fucking u up with Kane feels


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